


I'm Hers and She's Mine

by planetarium



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Babies, Domestic Clexa, F/F, Fluff, Jealousy, Pregnancy, Some angst, Surrogacy, They're practically married kind of
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-21
Updated: 2016-06-27
Packaged: 2018-07-16 05:05:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7253626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/planetarium/pseuds/planetarium
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If Clarke had asked her eighteen year old self, where she saw herself at age twenty-six, it was certainly not in a French Cafe, waiting to meet a prospective parent. </p><p>or; Clarke needs the money and Lexa wants a baby.<br/>But things are never this easy.<br/>surrogacy au.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> unbeta'd. All mistakes mine.  
> Really short because I should be doing my essay instead but-  
> Just pretend it takes place where science has allowed people to have biological kids.

Clarke couldn’t sit still. 

She traces the rim of the cup, her untouched chai latte, the first thing she saw on the menu, and the half-finished banana muffin. Clarke’s jittery now, too much sugar and caffeine, combined with her restless nerves. She tries to focus on the couple sitting a table away, anything to take her mind off the dread brewing in her stomach.

Perhaps it would be easier if she didn’t meet the parent at all, and at the end of nine months, deliver the baby and receive her pay check and continue on with her life. She knows that Abby would think her heartless to do such a thing, because pregnancy is meant to be a special experience. And here she is, selling her body to be bred like a brood mare. Prostitution’s respectable sister. 

Clarke glances at her phone. 9am. Twenty more minutes until the prospective parent arrives. Clarke could still leave, right now, shoot off a text with some flimsy excuse and fly back to San Francisco, change her number, and her name. She could. She should. 

But instead, she flicks back to the message from the private company, to her match with Alexandria Woods. A near perfect match, the company boasts, ‘You and Alexandria Woods are a 99.9% match!’ 

Female Yale University professor. Covers all expenses, up to $200k compensation negotiable. Wants to be heavily involved in the process. Wants to meet with potential donors. Wants a complete medical / educational history of donors. 

Two hundred thousand. 

Clarke eyes the numbers again. Clarke has never seen more than three digits in her bank account. Almost eight times that of the rate usually compensated. A respectable woman. Not some weird man with an impregnation kink and insisting on natural insemination. Even when he offered a good price. Clarke still has, whatever little she has left, of some standards. Two hundred thousand and her shitty waitressing job will be able to clear the rest of it. She’ll be able to buy that little apartment, a few streets away from a studio bought with her grandfather’s meagre inheritance. It’s easy, right? Clarke fidgets with the edges of the wrapping of the muffin. 

A good cause. A gay woman wants a biological child. Clarke will be providing for a family. 

The white noise in the background does nothing to cease her gnawing worry. She runs her hands through her semi-dry hair, hoping she looked somewhat presentable.It’s not too late, a voice seemed to whisper in the back of her mind. She could still call it off. 

Just as Clarke’s courage began to dissipate, a paper cup is set down on the table.

“Miss Clarke Griffin?”

“Yes,” Clarke says, glancing up distractedly. “Lexa Woods?” 

The woman smiles. “I’m sorry to have kept you waiting.” 

“Oh no, I was very early.” Thirty minutes because of nerves. Even earlier because Clarke took the first hot shower in almost two weeks. 

Lexa extends her hand. “Nice to meet you.”

“Thank you for flying me all the way out here and arranging my hotel.” 

Lexa’s hand is warm and soft and the first human contact Clarke’s had in weeks. The corner of Lexa’s lip quirks up in amusement when Clarke doesn’t let go in good time. Clarke suddenly feels like a small pre-schooler as her cheeks warm at Lexa’s polite gaze.

Lexa clears her throat. The tips of her ears are tinged red.“No, thank you,” she says, and a beat after, somewhat stiffly, “I-I’m really grateful you have agreed to meet with me today.” 

There’s a lapse in conversation because what do you say to a stranger? So Clarke asks about her job, and Lexa responds politely. Then Lexa asks Clarke, and Clarke says she’s an artist but no more. Lexa brings her lips to her steaming coffee to take a sip. Clarke does the same for the sake of appearing to have something to do. But she takes a moment to study Lexa. She sits with an excellent posture, shoulders back, and head held high. Clarke supposes to onlookers they must look like an odd pair, given Lexa’s professional attire in comparison to Clarke’s casual one. 

“I was hoping we could discuss the terms of our contract more clearly, so we both know what will be involved.” 

“Of course.” 

Lexa smiles again. It doesn’t reach her eyes, however. Somewhat detached, impersonal. But her eyes are green. It isn’t a good thing that Clarke runs through biology, thinks of punnett squares and the future eye colour of the baby. 

“As a prospective parent, all medical expenses, attorney fees, and travel expenses will be covered. Housing, as well, if needed.” Lexa says. “And of course you will be compensated— how exactly would you like to go about doing it?”

Fifty percent, Clarke decides. 

“Pardon?”

“Would you like a monthly transfer or ah,” Lexa waves her hand around in the air, searching for a word. 

“That will be great.” 

She nods, then says, “As you know, I mentioned in my profile that I would like to be a part of this process as much as possible— if we have different views on this term I don’t think we will be compatible.” Lexa’s tongue darts out to wet her lips, and she furrows her brow. “Is this term alright with you? If I was to accompany you in your medical examinations and the birth,”

“I have no problem with that.” 

It’s as if Clarke’s word had magic in them. A smile bloomed across Lexa’s lips, and her eyes softened. A warmth spreads in Clarke’s chest. 

“I’m glad to hear.” 

There’s a moment of shared silence. Clarke doesn’t feel the need to fill in the gaps with pleasantries, and Lexa looks like she’s contemplating something else. 

“Obviously, Connecticut and California are quite far.” Lexa goes on to say, “I think it will become a strain, especially during the latter stages, if we both have to travel monthly. I presume that you are, fixed in San Francisco?”

“Yes, I’m afraid so.” 

The thought of flying to Lexa every month or so made her stomach turn. Flights were bad. But driving would be impossible and unaffordable. 

“I will discuss with my employers to see if we could arrange something, if I could stay in San Francisco just for the nine months.” 

“Alright.”

“I have one more proposal,” Lexa says, and her hand shoots up to press her tortoiseshell glasses to rest on her head. More nervous than anything. “Of course if that is, inconvenient or uncomfortable for you, we don’t have to consider it at all. I was thinking perhaps we could ah, arrange something, a living situation for the two of us for the nine months - I would, like to know the child’s mother better and I think it will be good- for support, seeing as we’re both first-timers,” 

She wrings her hands and smiles again at Clarke.    
“Will you be renting an apartment in San Francisco?”

“Yes, most likely. I- I would not ask you to move out of your home if you do not wish to- I just mean to say the offer is available.”

Clarke smiles then. It’s strange how she sees the tension ease from Lexa. “Thank you, I’ll consider it.” 

“I’m glad to say that, well, all your records seem, great, above average-” Lexa fumbles for the words again, and she ends up just nodding. Her cheeks are warm, Clarke realises. “Thank you, again, I am very glad we’ve been matched.” 

“It’s like a job interview, isn’t it?”

That earns a laugh from Lexa. A nice sound. “I suppose you’re right, Clarke.” 

Then, Lexa glances at her watch and winces. “I’ve got a class in twenty minutes. I’ll contact my lawyer to get the details of it finalised to you.” Lexa stands and gathers her cup, smooths her blazer and smiles. “Thank you, Clarke.”

“You too, Lexa.” 

Clarke watches Lexa go, slip out the cafe breezily, striding down the sidewalk, already dialling a number into her phone. 

She sips at her cold latte, until she supposes it would no longer be considered appropriate, given the stink-eye one of the baristas are shooting at her. Especially because Clarke doesn’t have a book, or a laptop, or anything suggesting she was important. 

The hotel Lexa had arranged for her was within a few minutes walking distance of the cafe. It was thoughtful of her, and Clarke was glad that her text provided detailed instructions on how to get there- even when it probably wasn’t necessary. 

Her flight back to San Francisco is two days away. 

***

When she returns to the hotel, Clarke goes down to the buffet. The servers are helpful, and no one seems to think much of a girl sitting at a table alone with three plates full of food. 

Clarke falls asleep early that afternoon on soft, fluffy pillows and sheets. She wakes up ravenous at around 4am. The mini fridge is stocked with sodas, juices, beer, and wine. She could call But one look at the price tag makes Clarke opt for tap water instead. She makes herself a cup of hot tea and curls up on the couch. 

The city outside is asleep, flooded in a sea of blue. An odd car drove by, followed by one or two joggers passing by with their dogs. It’s eerily calm, Clarke thinks, like the day after an apocalypse. Nothing like her apartment, now but a small memory thousands of miles away. Her drab home with no hot water or consistently functioning electricity, and its paper thin walls. Every night she could hear her neighbours arguing, partying, or fucking. But there was nothing like that here. Clarke stains her ears for any noise besides the dull thud of her heart. No midnight siren wails as police cars speed by, no howling dogs, no crying babies. Not yet, at least. 

Clarke’s phone buzzes with a text message. 

From Lexa. At 5am. 

[ Indra notified me that she has sent the papers to your home address in San Francisco. Let me know once you’ve thought about my offer on our living arrangements. Thank you for meeting with me yesterday, I hope your flight home is comfortable.] 

Clarke’s finger hovers above her phone’s keyboard for a second as she contemplates what to write back. Whether Lexa expects her to respond, or to simply read it as an affirmative of what’s already been discussed. In the end, Clarke opts for the polite ‘thank you’ and that she’d think about Lexa’s offer. 

By the time the sun rises, Clarke’s eyelids feel too heavy to lift and she settles down onto the king-sized bed. She doesn’t let her mind dwell on it, for then she’ll never make a decision. Nine months, thirty seven weeks, and Clarke will have her ticket to freedom. A new life, a fresh start.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> unbeta'd all mistakes mine

Clarke arrives in San Francisco slightly after twelve in the afternoon. Her head throbs and she feels as if her soul has drifted out from her body. The whole flight she endured a tired mother trying to comfort a screaming baby. The mother kept shooting sorry glances in her direction, even offering her some new earplugs from her overstuffed nappy bag.

She’s glad to see that a bus is already waiting by the stop. No need for her to stand and wait for fifteen minutes.

The bus driver barely acknowledges Clarke as she swipes her ticket and takes the seat above the wheel, resting her head against the cold window. It’s completely empty. The bus rumbles in place as the driver glances every so often at his wristwatch. A few more people stream out of the airport, either hailing taxis or climbing into the cars of friends and family.

A woman passes the bus, pulling behind her a small suitcase. A man greets her, boyfriend or husband, Clarke decides, as he leans in for a kiss. They talk with big gestures, and whenever the man opens his mouth the woman laughs. Clarke tries to read the movement of their lips, but the man pulls open the door and helps the woman in.

The bus lurches forward.

Nobody gets on.

Clarke used to think people who took the airport buses were losers.

***

“You got mail when you were gone,” Doug says to her as she wait for the elevator. “Express post or whatever.”

The damn thing probably would take ten minutes to get down six stories. “Thanks.”

She tucks the envelope into her bag. Doug stays beside her, standing uncomfortably close as he shuffles his feet. “You clearing out soon?”

Clarke nods. “Mr Hill wants me out in two days.”

She hears him click his tongue.

“Found a place yet or,” Doug digs his hands into his pockets. “I’m not going back on my word, you can stay at my place if you want to. No rent or anything.”

Clarke tries to smile at him, as politely and as pleasantly as she can muster.  
She remembers the unpleasant encounters with him in the hallway, how sometimes he pressed too close against her arm or breathed down her neck. But even more, how she could hear him in the middle of the night grunting and the slap of hand on skin.

“I’m fine, thanks.”

Doug sighs. “I love you, you know that Clarke. More than that Finn fella and that Baloney guy.”

Thankfully, the doors ding open and Clarke has never been more glad to jump into the rickety thing. Doug doesn’t get in this time, for which Clarke thanks the stars for. Last time she was stuck with him in the elevator for almost an hour. Instead, he rubs at his face and turns toward the sleeping security guard.

***

There’s two letters.

She opens one letter up, and its from the venue. It informs her that despite her “intriguing pieces of art”, the curators ultimately decided that her work will not fit into the overall “artistic vision” hence they will unfortunately have to decline.

The other mail is from Connecticut. The Express Post by Lexa and her lawyer, Indra, with details of the contract. Clarke skims through it, and it contains all the things she and Lexa discussed a few days ago. Inside the letter also, is a paid envelope for Express Post back to Connecticut.

She should think it through and there is still time to say no. Lexa would not force her. But the zeroes after the two seem to possess her. Money. Freedom. Clarke signs the contract with a date and places it in the new envelope. Tomorrow, Clarke thinks. She’ll mail it off tomorrow on her way to work.

Then she takes one long look at her shoe-box apartment. Literally just a mattress with a sorry sheet on the floor, four steps from her cramped bathroom. She has one small, oak desk in the corner, where she keeps her important things. She has a stack of crates she uses as a bookshelf, and storage for her art supplies— dozens of rolled up paper for charcoal, pastel, graphite, giant canvases for acrylic, and expensive thick water colour paper. Her place looks exactly the same as she left it. The yellowing lightbulb still flickers incessantly. The three succulents Raven had given to her have died, shrivelled in their pastel pots. Over-watering.

Clarke doesn’t know how long she sits, staring at the sealed envelope until she hears Doug panting in the room beside hers. It grows louder and louder, and Clarke stumbles over some stacks of newspaper to rush into the bathroom. She turns on the tap to drown out the noise. She can hear him still.

So Clarke shuts the door to the bathroom and sits on the toilet. The empty toilet roll is begging to be replaced. The rushing water seems louder. When she stares at the wet wallpaper, she stiffens. She fidgets with a bit of flimsy pattern peeling off the wall.

The entire thing comes off, like the tearing of newspaper and Clarke is horrified at the sight. A hole between her bathroom and Doug’s. His bathroom door was open and Clarke felt sick.

Hearing him was worse enough, but seeing him? And knowing for a fact that he was aware of this made her mouth sour.

The water stops, and Clarke hears Doug’s groans grow louder. She stomps outside the bathroom, to her mattress, and fumbles for her earbuds. In the process, she spots Lexa’s text from the day before. And without another thought, Clarke writes to her.

[If the offer for housing in San Francisco is still available, I’d like to take you up on that.]

Almost immediately, she receives a response.

[Of course. Sinclair can help you move in tomorrow, if that’s convenient for you.]

[It’s no problem for me.]

[Sent him your address. He says he’ll see you around 5pm, if that’s alright?]

[It’s perfect.]

Clarke puts her phone on shuffle and places a canvas on the easel. Her wooden palette is probably at least five-layers thick of paint by now, she really ought to scrape it off or buy a new one. But instead, Clarke squeezes some dabs of acrylic paint on top of the multicoloured layer.

The moment she sets her brush down into the blues and greens, she intrinsically seems to know what to do. The old jam jar with its faded label has dirty water in it, muddy in appearance, but Clarke doesn’t dare move— not when inspiration has come knocking on her door.

It’s the kind of night where Clarke wouldn’t be able to sleep even if she wanted to. She doesn’t know how long she paints, until her arm grows sore and her bottom moulded into the state of the flooring.

She didn’t see Lexa’s text.

[Thank you, Clarke.]

A strange warmth settles inside her chest, and grows bigger and bigger. For the first time in months, Clarke wonders what it would feel like to wake up and to fall asleep to kind messages, to early good-mornings and late sweet-dreams.

***

Abby calls her at seven in the morning, calmer, than the day before yesterday. Her medication is helping, she says to Clarke, and she feels better. She says she won’t relapse, that this time she’s done for good. Clarke’s back feels strained, and she finds a splotch of paint she probably knocked over in the night.

“I’m trying really hard Clarke. I won’t let you down again, I promise.”

“That’s good to hear,” Clarke says, mind still groggy from sleep. There’s an ache in her neck from the strange position she found herself curled up in. Clarke winces at her skin, dried paint, but more so for her expensive brushes— that she left out of the little jam jar filled with water. A pain to wash out dry paint, especially with no warm water.

She hears Abby clear her throat. “I’ve been talking about me the whole time. Tell me about you, Clarke, how are you doing? How’s the apartment? The exhibition?”

It’s an attempt on her part, Clarke knows.

“It’s going well, so far, it takes time to get these type of things to run smoothly. I’ll visit you sometime next week, okay? I’m looking for a new apartment.”

Clarke hears something on the other side of the line, about phone time almost being over.

“Alright,” Abby says quickly, “Well, look after yourself Clarke and I’ll see you next week.”

Clarke wants to say more but Abby hangs up.

***  
Clarke leaves her apartment keys on the desk with an envelope for last month’s payment.

As Lexa said, Sinclair arrived outside her door at five sharp. He even offered to help Clarke pack the remainder of her things. Honestly, there was little to bring beside her art supplies, and the two good easels her father gifted her when she turned fifteen. Sinclair asked if she wanted the mattress, the oak table, or the crates— or even the rack where she’d been hanging her clothes, and when Clarke did consider it, Sinclair helped load two crates into his car.

“It’s alright, the house has all those things anyway.” Sinclair said. “Built in closet, decent sized place, I think. The balcony is great, good view. Hopefully my plants are still alive.”

Doug was by the entrance way to the apartments, glaring at Sinclair with his hands stuffed in his ragged jean pockets, sticking his lip out in disgust. She supposed his fancy tailored suit and sleek hairstyle threatened Doug. Sinclair too, noticed it and even asked Clarke before he started the engine whether he was an ex-boyfriend.

Clarke shook her head and he grinned.

It’s a pleasant ride, given that Sinclair only asked a few polite questions and switched on the radio, getting rid of the need for Clarke to small-talk. Clarke watched as the scenery outside the tinted windows changed, from her run-down suburbs to the neater ones. When Sinclair turns the corner into the pastel-coloured Edwardian-era houses, packed closely together with neatly trimmed hedges, Clarke feels light-headed.

He leads her into a renovated warehouse loft. Sinclair nods to the doorman, who tips his hat at Clarke, and they take the elevator to the eighth floor, where Sinclair unlocks the door to Clarke’s new home for nine months.

Sinclair lets her explore as he unloads the little bits of Clarke’s belongings into the loft.

And Clarke takes the time to look around. Functioning electricity and water. An actual fridge with a gorgeous, well-lit kitchen area. Even a dish-washer. What kind of luxury was this? There were a few comfortable looking plush couches situated in a corner, followed by a wide-screen plasma TV. A smaller section was left for a neat desk and lamp— a study, Clarke supposed.

One look into the bathroom made Clarke want to cry. A shower and a luxurious bath tub. Sinclair even stocked the soap, toilet paper, shampoo, and conditioner.

The stairs leading to the second floor consisted of a king-sized bed and two bed-side tables only, followed by the built-in closet Sinclair was talking about.

But more than anything, Clarke loved the high-ceilings, and the prominence of brick in the wall, and wood on the flooring. It even had a fireplace for winter, and a fluffy sheepskin on the floor.

Now Clarke’s thought of her old apartment seems to vanish entirely.

***

That night, Clarke takes a twenty minute long shower with hot water cascading down— no sudden chills as the temperature plummets without warning, and takes her time getting dressed with the warm light shining on her back.

As she pads upstairs, barefoot, to plop herself down onto the mattress, she takes a moment to enjoy it all.

Blissfully quiet.

***

_“Clarke hurry up!”_

_“You can’t do anything right can you, Clarke?”_

_“We were better off without ya Griff.”_

A few days off work and Clarke feels as if she can barely keep up. It’s a Wednesday night shift and the orders keep coming. The chef, Nick keeps snapping at her, and Tracey keeps getting let off the hook because she’s sleeping with him. She spots one or two girls taking a few notes from the registers as well. But Clarke carries four plates of food to hungry, impatient customers who don’t bat an eye when she places their meals in front of them. A few even snap their fingers to get her attention.  
  
_“Can you heat this up?” “We want a refund.” “Where’s the high chair?”_

The most she gets is a grunt. When she asks if they want salt or pepper, some don’t respond whilst others want to do it themselves. Clarke runs around like a headless chicken whilst some of the other girls sit about the counter making themselves look busy by drying dry glasses.

When the last of the customers leave, it is well past ten at night. The waitresses go to count up their tips, and Clarke does the same. A group of girls sit close together, and speak loudly amongst themselves.

Barely anything.

Clarke leaves, and only the cleaner, an older Indian woman, says goodnight to her.

The worst, Clarke thinks, is walking back. The diner is slightly further from the loft, so she has to take two buses. Buses at night came in greater intervals, thirty minutes. Thankfully, she didn’t miss the early bus. In total, the trip takes around forty minutes— and Clarke is grateful she made herself a coffee during lunch. Otherwise she might’ve fallen asleep and missed her stop.

By the time Clarke enters the loft, the troubles of the day seem left behind. Clarke prepares for bed when her phone buzzes with a text.

[Thank you for responding so quick. My employers have pulled some strings and I’ll be heading to San Francisco in two days.]

[I have Friday off. Thank you again, Lexa.]

[Thank you, Clarke.]

Clarke wonders if they will ever stop thanking each other. Then, before Clarke can ponder anymore, another text from Lexa appears.

[I forgot to ask you, are you allergic to any animals?]

[Not that I know of. Why?]

[I realised that I may not have taken my dog into account when I suggested our living arrangements.]

[Bring your dog along. The loft is perfect, by the way.]

Just as Clarke climbs into the big bed, and plugs her phone in, she sees another text from Lexa.

[You’re an absolute angel, Clarke.]

***

Clarke wakes at seven in the morning.

The first thing she realises are the cardboard boxes. They’re not hers, she knows, for she’s already taken her stuff out and set it aside. For a second she wonders if Sinclair delivered Lexa’s clothes and furniture for Lexa, and Clarke wraps a robe around herself as she climbs down the stairs.

She spots a dog beside the couch, still sleeping.

Did Lexa arrive already?

Clarke inspects the couch more closely— and suddenly feels a stab of guilt, Lexa must’ve had to sleep on the couch, because Clarke took the bed. Just as Clarke intends to go see if Lexa is still here, she finds a plate of waffles with whipped cream and berries.

A small note is beside it.

_I didn’t know if you preferred maple syrup or whipped cream on your waffles, so I took a guess._

_-L_

_P.S. His name is Fish._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my theory is that if these chapters are short i’ll update regularly maybe.

**Author's Note:**

> Just a note that surrogacy doesn't actually work this way- there's a lot of criteria a woman needs to fit into before she can apply to become a surrogate mother: https://www.surrogacyamerica.com/become-surrogate-mother
> 
> For the sake of the story, Clarke goes by a private company which doesn't check into all this.


End file.
